


saving draco malfoy

by soleil_slytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Harry's a badass, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Morally Ambiguous Character, POV Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-05-30 16:04:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19406683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soleil_slytherin/pseuds/soleil_slytherin
Summary: Set in sixth year. Harry attempts to save Draco Malfoy through any means possible, while Draco is attempting to murder Dumbledore, through any means possible.





	1. the dark mark

It was dark in the manor. The only light came from lanterns lining the dining hall. The light they cast was dim and flickering.

Draco shuddered. 

He sat across from Voldemort, a polished oak table the only thing separating him and the dark lord. The man’s (if he could even call the thing before him a man) eyes were narrowed (at least more than usual) and his mouth pulled into a sneer. 

It took all of Draco’s self restraint to not grab his wand off the table. Instead, he clasped his hands together on the table. He straightened his posture and looking into the eyes of Lord Voldemort. 

“So,” Voldemort began, giving him a cold look. “You’re the Malfoy boy. Your father has disappointed me many times, and I have been too lenient with him. However, I am willing to give you a chance to redeem Lucius Malfoy.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Draco bowed his head. The only way he could keep his face composed was biting his tongue, letting the pain distract him from the murderer sitting in his house, at his table, right in front of him. Salty, tangy blood filled his mouth, and he realized he had bit hard enough to draw blood. 

It was worth it, because when he glanced up, Voldemort’s face, although cold, was blank. It showed no sign of anger, only disappointment. “How may I serve you?” He asked, keeping his voice steady. 

“You must understand that you are the only student who serves me.” Draco grabbed his robes in his fists, clenching them in his lap. He didn't want to serve the monster in front of him. “Draco, you must understand that you have an incredible position, one that will be valuable to me. You must kill Albus Dumbledore.”

Draco couldn’t help it. A small gasp escaped his lips without his permission. “My lord. Even you were not able to kill him. How do you expect me to succeed?” He realized that mentioning Voldemort’s failure was probably not the best thing he could have said. A sneer crept onto Voldemort’s face, making him look even less human. 

“I do not expect you to succeed.” Voldemort laughed, as if the very idea was ridiculous. “However, if you do manage to succeed, that would benefit me greatly. I am giving you a chance to prove yourself too me.” He paused. “Now, enough of my time has been wasted. Wormtail will be here soon enough.” He gestured to the door. 

Draco started to say, “Why-” But he trailed off when he realized that Voldemort had disappeared into the air. Wherever he had gone was unknown to everyone but him.

Sure enough, before he could process what he was being ordered to do, Peter Pettigrew shuffled into the room. He was holding a wand in one shaky hand, approaching Draco. “Put your arm out, Draco.”

“Why?” Draco asked, impulsive pulling his arm towards his chest. 

“You’re Voldemort’s assistant now. He requires you to be branded with the Dark Mark.”

“What?” Draco said disbelievingly.

“The Dark Mark allows Voldemort to call his assistant to him at any time.” Wormtail explained slowly, as if Draco was a child. 

Everyone was always treating him like a child.

“I need your arm.” Wormtail repeated.

Draco hesitated. What was the use of resisting? Voldemort would be able to find him wherever he was and punish him accordingly. There was no use in attempting to fool himself with childish fantasies of freedom.

He held out his arm. It was shaking. He took a few deep breaths as Wormtail muttered something under his breath to his wand. The tip glowed the same green as his Slytherin robes. He shivered.  
Something about the fact that Voldemort was taking Draco’s house colors and using them to brand his followers made him angry. 

Wormtail brought the tip of his wand down, agonizingly slowly, and as it touched Draco’s hand, he could hear the sizzle of flesh. It burned maroon red, turning into a dark green moments later. Draco clenched his teeth, the pain searing into his every bone. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if the pain was necessary, or if this was simply another reminder from the Dark Lord to his followers: that he could inflict pain in them whenever he desired. That they were pawns in his game. 

Wormtail kept the tip of his wand on Draco’s arm, and from the tip, red lines, fading to green, raced outwards, forming a tattoo: a skull devouring a twisted snake. 

It took only a few seconds before Wormtail stood back to admire his work. Draco felt the mark on his skin, and where the green lines sat, the skin was raised. He winced and quickly took his fingers of his arm. 

“Good luck.” Wormtail called over his shoulder as he exited the room.

“I’m going to need it.” Draco muttered under his breath.

He was beginning to see that Voldemort’s insane request was not because he was worthy, but because he was a child in the dark lord’s eyes. A child that wasn’t able to kill, wasn’t able to rescue his father.

In that moment, he swore to himself that he would kill Albus Dumbledore, no matter what it took. 

No matter who he dragged down with him. 

Madame Malkin’s was smaller than Draco remembered.

Normally, Draco would be at least a little excited by this point: getting new robes signified the start of a new year, an escape from his father’s ever-watching eyes.

Now, he felt sick to his stomach at the thought of Hogwarts. Especially it’s headmaster. 

Draco turned to his mother, who had insisted to follow him into the tiny robes shop. 

“I’m in sixth year now. I think I should be able to have some space.” He was going to cross his arms before he realized that Madame Malkin was currently sticking all sorts of pins in his robes, and moving would most likely end up with him looking like a pincushion. 

Of course his mother had to hover over him. He supposed it was just paranoia following his father’s imprisonment. Just another thing he had to thank Lucius Malfoy for. 

He had a mission; one that his mother could not be involved in. One he had to be alone to carry out. 

“I’m not a child, in case you haven’t noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone.”

“Now dear, you’re mother’s quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it’s nothing to do with being a child-” 

The end of a stray pin dug into Draco’s skin and he winced. “Watch where you’re sticking that pin, will you?”

It seemed Madame Malkin had finished, she was stepping back and admiring her work. Draco examined himself in the mirror. His robes were emerald green and shimmered when he moved them. He gave a satisfied smile for a moment, a smile that quickly faded when he caught a glimpse of a lightning scar in the mirror.

Harry Potter was standing behind him. His hair was pushed back slightly to reveal his scar - he probably styled it that way on purpose, the arrogant prick. Granger and Weasley stood behind Potter, scowling at him. Draco returned the favor. 

“If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in.” Draco narrowed his eyes at Hermione. 

Both Weasley and Potter had drawn their wands quicker than he could blink, holding them out towards Draco. 

Good. The bigger a scene he made, the better.

Madame Malkin was chiding them behind him, but Draco ignored her, instead going for Hermione once again, a mindless insult from a vast reservoir. 

Madame Malkin was getting more upset behind them, but before Draco could finally escape, his mother strode up behind him. 

“Put those away. If you attack my son again, I will ensure that it is the last thing you do.” While it was a touching sight, Draco cringed. Potter was going to think he needed his mother to fight his battles for him.

“Really?” Potter stepped closer to his mother, and, by association, Draco. He realized that he had grown taller over the summer and frowned. Height was another thing he could not hold over Potter’s head anymore. Potter continued; “Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in?” 

A bolt of cold anger ran down Draco’s neck. He had expected Potter to have known about his father’s imprisonment, but he had not prepared for an insult relating to it. 

Draco clutched his wand tightly in his hand, his knuckles becoming white from the effort it took to keep it at his side. His mother and Potter traded insults, but they were lost in the buzz that filled Draco’s ears. 

“...they might be able to find you a double cell in azkaban with your loser husband!” Draco heard Potter spit. 

He could no longer contain himself, and he moved towards Potter, aiming his wand at his chest. Before he could open his mouth, he tripped forwards over his robes.

He heard a short, smug laugh and glared at the Weasley.

He was vaguely aware of Madame Malkin fiddling with his robes besides him until she stuck him with another pin - seriously, what kind of service were they giving here? - and he jumped about a half a foot. 

“Ouch!” He snatched his sleeve away from the woman beside him. “Watch where you’re putting those pins,” He scowled. “You know what, I think it’s time to leave.” He pulled the robes over his head, wincing as some stray pins left scratches. 

He strode out, not looking back. Not looking back, even though he knew the look on Potter’s face would make it hard to sleep that night.

The door to Borgin and Burkes slammed behind him. Draco watched as Borgin jumped, his eyes widening in fear as he caught a glimpse of Draco standing in the doorway. 

“W-What do you want, Malfoy?” Borgin sneered.

“I have a wardrobe.” Draco started, noting Borgin’s gaze flicker to the wardrobe tucked in the back of his store. “It’s part of the pair.”

“Part of the pair? What pa-”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Borgin.” Draco interrupted. “I need to know how to fix it. Can you do that for me?”

“It’s possible.” Borgin said reluctantly. “I’d need to see it in person, though.”

“No.” Draco said immediately. He didn’t like the look that passed over Borgin’s face, like he was filing everything that Draco said for future reference. For a moment, he was almost afraid of Borgin, until he realized it was he who had the Dark Mark, he who worked for the most powerful wizard in Europe.

“Without seeing it, I’m not sure there’s much I can do.” Borgin said, a smirk tugging up the corners of his lips. 

“No?” Draco sneered. “Maybe this will make you reconsider.” He drew up his sleeve slowly, revealing the dark mark.

Borgin’s expression shifted from slight smugness to pure fear. 

Before he could respond, Draco whispered, “And if you tell anyone about this, I promise you, there will be consequences. 

“There will be no need-”

“I will be the one to decide if there is need, Borgin.” Draco felt a thrill at the feeling of being more powerful than someone for once. For the first time, he wasn’t the one with fear in his eyes, being backed into the corner. He was the predator, not the prey. 

A small voice in the back of his head asked him if he really wanted to do this. Wanted to become like all the people he had feared. He shut it down, because he had no choice but to play along in this twisted game of chess. A game where any move could blow his cover, send him off the board forever. 

His father had already played and lost. Now it was Draco’s turn. 

“Don’t forget to keep it safe. I will be returning.” 

“Perhaps you’d like to take it now?” Did Borgin truly not want to see him again that badly? 

“Of course not, you idiot. How am I supposed to carry it across the street? It’s not exactly discreet.” He snapped. 

“Of course,” Borgin hesitated, “Sir.” 

Draco didn’t want the thrill of power that ran down his spine, but it happened anyways. 

“This is between us, do you understand?” Draco said as he brushed past Borgin. The man nodded furiously. 

As he opened the door, he smiled to himself. Getting the wardrobe was the first step done. Granted, he hadn’t exactly acquired it yet, but Borgin seemed scared stiff, so he considered it a job well done. 

Draco wasn’t sure why he shivered as he stepped into the open. After all, it was late august and humid, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes watching him. 

He walked a little faster.


	2. pretender

Draco tapped his foot impatiently. Zabini should have been back earlier, or at least he thought. 

What if he had been attacked? As far as he knew, the hogwarts express was heavily guarded, but Dumbledore was the type of person to put a mysterious, possibly dangerous magical being (like, for example, a weirdass, confusing trolley lady) on the train and call it a day. 

“Draco, you look nervous.” Pansy nudged his side. 

“Me?” Draco smirked. “Far from it. I’m a prefect this year, after all.” He flashed his badge. It was almost like an inside joke with himself. Dumbledore had given it to him, an unknown assist in his own - Draco halted at saying death, even in his head, where no one could hear. It still sounded too final.

Before Pansy could pry more - she was quite nosy - the door burst open, and Zabini stepped in. He slid it closed, but it wouldn’t shut. 

Draco squinted at the floor, but he couldn’t see anything blocking it from shutting. 

“What’s-” Zabini attempted to close the door again, “wrong-” more forcefully this time, “with this door?” After his last words, the door slid open suddenly, and Zabini was flung across the train car. He hit Goyle in the crotch and he snarled. The door problem was forgotten to everyone but Draco as they exchanged curt words.

Draco had realized long ago that he had to be on high alert, and something was obviously wrong here. He glanced around the compartment, his gaze catching on Zabini’s now empty seat, where a sneaker, floating in midair, climbed to the luggage rack above - only appearing as a flash in his vision for less than a second before promptly disappearing. 

Draco almost chuckled. He would recognize that sneaker anywhere - the boy who they belonged too hadn’t gotten new ones since last year. 

He hadn’t expected Potter to be that clever - he must have followed Blaise back from Slughorn’s little party. 

Draco was almost impressed. 

His gaze flickered to Zabini, who had collapsed into his seat and was glaring at Goyle. If looks could kill.

In an attempt to draw the attention away from the tension in the room, he asked, “So, what’d Slughorn want?”

“He was pretty much trying to find famous people to influnce.” Zabini shrugged. 

“Who else did he invite?” Draco would have expected an invitation, before the summer of course. He had quickly realized that no matter how many Ministry donations his father had made, once it was discovered that he was a Death Eater, no one but the Slytherins were keen to spend much time with him, lest they be accused of being a death eater themselves. 

“McLaggen, the Weasley girl-”

“The Weasley girl?” Pansy shrieked. “Why her?”

“Hell if I know.” Zabini threw his hands up in the air, exasperated by the very idea of a Weasley, much less a girl, being on his level.

Although he would never tell Pansy, Draco could understand the reasoning behind inviting Ginny Weasley. She was strong, good with a wand, and quick on her feet. He had even caught Potter glancing at her a couple of times last year.

For whatever reason, he couldn’t stand when Potter and Weasley talked. he couldn’t figure out why, but he was glad that while Ginny Weasley had gained confidence through the years, she still stammered through her words when she was around Potter.

Better that Potter didn’t get a girlfriend anyways. He and the ravenclaw - Cho Chang, that was her name - had seemed close last year, but the last time he saw them, they had been arguing. Good. If Potter got himself a girlfriend, it would mess up Draco’s plans. He was already around Weasley and Granger more than optimal. If he had another person hanging off his arm all the time, then it would be hard for Draco to spy on him. Of course that was the reason. It would explain why every time Draco thought of Potter with a girl, his stomach turned and he felt the strong urge to punch whoever he was with. 

“... and Potter.” Zabini finished. 

“Oh, the Chosen One.” Malfoy sneered. “Precious Potter, Dumbledore's favorite, of course he would be there.” He raised his voice slightly, to make sure that Potter, hiding in the invisibility cloak, could hear him well. “I’m quite glad I might not be attending Hogwarts next year, if old farts like him will be teaching. Nothing I could learn from him anyways”

“You might not be attending Hogwarts next year?” Pansy turned to look at him. She was uncomfortably close, closer than necessary in their relatively spacey compartment. Her thigh pressed up against his, and Draco pressed his other side closer to the wall.

“Well,” Draco wanted to brag so badly, but he had to be careful how much he told. Enough to infuriate Potter, of course, but not enough substantial evidence to have him run to his precious Dumbledore. “Let's just say I might be onto bigger, better things soon enough.”

He looked around the compartment, gauging the Slytherin’s reactions. Zabini’s mouth was hanging open, while Goyle and Crabbe, too dumb to pick up the hints he was dropping, simply stared blankly. 

Pansy, her eyes wide, lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Do you mean…” She paused, choosing her next word carefully, “Him?”

Draco shrugged. “Mother, of course, is urging me to continue my education. However, will the level of education I received truly matter when the Dark Lord rules? I doubt it. Homework, tests… the Dark Lord cares not about trivial things such as those. What really matters is the amount of service, the level of devotion he sees.” 

It was kill or be killed. Become a murderer of be murdered. There was no way out. That was what Draco had told himself over and over again until he almost believed it. 

“You’re sixteen.” Zabini smirked. “Do you think the Dark Lord will ask you to do something for him?”

Again, it was his age that was the problem. He was being called a child, by someone older than him by a couple of months. 

“Maybe he doesn’t care about my age, or how qualified I am.” Draco emphasized the maybe. “Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something you need to be qualified for.”

After all, no one was born a murderer. Draco shivered. He didn’t want to brag anymore. Time for a subject change. “We’re nearly at Hogwarts. We should get ready.” 

Everyone murmured in agreement. Some people reached for their bags, Goyle being one of them. He watched as Goyle swung his bag down fairly forcefully, and heard a slight gasp of pain as the suitcase hit what he presumed was Potter. 

Thankfully, no one else noticed. He wanted Potter for himself.

So he waited patiently as everyone left the train, calling out, “I just need to check on something, I’ll be right there.” The second the door slid shut, Draco raised his wand. “Petrificus Totalus!” He growled in the direction of where he assumed Potter was.

For a fleeting second, Draco was worried that he had misjudged, that his paranoia had taken him too far. 

He was proven wrong when Harry Potter fell out of the luggage compartment, landing with a thud that echoed in the empty train compartment.

Draco sneered. “Well, who do we have here?”

“Harry Potter.” Draco clucked his tongue. “There was no need to hide. You were quite obvious.”

Potter simply stared up at him with terror in his eyes. Draco paused. He wanted, so badly, to walk away, to leave Potter on the train.

He wasn’t sure if he could hurt him.

“You’re not strong enough. You aren’t a murder, Draco. You could never.” His mother's voice filled his head, and he grimaced. 

He brought his foot up and stomped down hard on Potter’s face, hearing his nose crack. Blood began trickling down his cheeks, and it filled Draco’s vision. 

The blood was crimson in color, suddenly suffocating him, filling every crevice in his body. When he looked down at his hands, they were slick with it. He let out a gasp and stumbled backwards, holding his hands away from him. 

Is this what you want to become? Who you want to be?

He slumped against the wall, his heartbeat much too fast. 

Your father never recovered, you know. He still wakes up at night, screaming like he was the one being murdered.

Draco slid down to the floor. He clutched his hair, clumps of it in his hands. He could feel the blood staining it, the perfect white-blonde color disappearing under red. Everything was red. 

He says he can feel it. The pain they went through.

As fast as it had come, the blood disappeared. When Draco checked his hands, turning them over, they were spotless. No trace of whatever cruel trick his mind had played on him remained. His breath still came in short, gasping intervals. His throat burned, and it was a chore to simply struggle to draw a breath. 

He couldn’t calm down. He heard the whistle blow, signifying that the train would leave in minutes, but Draco couldn’t breathe, much less walk off the train.

The thought of missing the feast made Draco panic even more. People couldn’t know- Dumbledore couldn’t know.

Under normal circumstances, he would have punched whoever touched him. Especially if their body was pressing into his, their arms wrapped around his waist. 

But these were not ordinary circumstances. Draco was dragged off the train, painfully and slowly, whoever had come back to get him clearly struggling. They were trying to support him, and he shuffled along, helping lessen the burden as much as he could. 

“Bloody- tall- people-” He heard them huff at one point.

Draco had regained enough of his clearheadedness to face whoever had helped him- most likely Pansy or Blaise. He tilted his head up. They had propped him up on the grass in front of the school. 

But who?

In the dim light, Draco could make out messy, dark hair, a thin frame, round glasses-

Shit. Draco swore to himself. 

“You’re better?” Potter broke the thick silence that had grown over them.

“You- I-”

“Yeah, you fucking broke my nose, Malfoy.” Potter said bitterly. “Gonna have to go to Madame Pomfrey for that, I suppose.”

“Why-”

Potter interrupted him again. “Why would I help you? I suppose I’m just a decent person, Malfoy. Maybe I don’t like to see people in pain.”

“I don’t-”

Potter gestured to his nose, and Draco shut up.

“Plus, now I know there is definitely something going on with you.” Potter shrugged. “And believe me, I won’t stop until I figure out what that is.”

Draco was in shock.

“Now, I have a strong urge to punch you right now, but I figure whatever happened on the train is punishment enough.” After a pause, he said, quieter, “You were terrified. It was what I imagine I look like when I see a dementor. And I don’t know what scares you so much, Malfoy, but I suggest you fess up, because whatever you’re that scared of, I figure I would be too.” He turned and began walking towards the castle, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be on the top of the astronomy tower tomorrow night.”

And he left Draco lying in the grass, stunned.

Holy hell. He thought. When did Potter become so confident?

Draco was still stunned as he entered the dining hall. He had planned a grand entrance in his head, one where he flung open the wide, intricately carved wooden doors, and the stars the decorated the ceiling shone down on him, in all his glory.

It did not happen like that.

Everyone was too busy looking at Potter, who was just taking his seat next to Weasley and Granger. He had cleaned up a bit, but a trickle of blood still made its way down the center of his face.

Draco slunk to the Slytherin table, where Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle looked up at him with confusion (although Crabbe and Goyle always looked confused, they weren’t particularly bright.)

“So?” Pansy asked, moving over on the bench to clear space for him. “What happened?”

“What do you mean what happened?” Draco regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. It was obvious that something had happened. 

“I mean that Potter came in with a bloody nose and then you came in moments later. And you said you had something to check on.”

Draco paused. The practical thing would be to tell Pansy everything that had happened. Minus his panic attack or whatever that had been. It would boost his reputation, make people fear him even more.

Then again, he had to keep a low profile. If Dumbledore started noticing him acting odd, then it was all over. 

He also wasn't sure that he could look his headmaster in the eyes anymore. 

“I found him lagging behind and punched him. He deserved it.” Draco shrugged, trying his best to act nonchalant. 

Pansy glared at him, saying haughtily, “Well you obviously aren’t in the mood to tell the truth.” She crossed her arms and turned away from him, striking up a conversation with Blaise, as if her attention was the worst thing she could take away from him.

He sighed in relief. His gaze wandered towards Potter, who was talking to his friends, a slight smile tugging at his lips. Before he could think about Potter’s invitation - was it an invitation? He supposed so, although it sounded a bit more like an order - before he could dwell on Potter's words, Dumbledore clapped his hands, and the Prefects began gathering up the first years. 

He hadn’t noticed until then, but one of Dumbledore’s hands was curled and shriveled, a sickly shade of pale yellow.

Draco wondered who had done that. If it was Voldemort or a death eater. Pansy, who had ignored him for a stunning five minutes, tugged at the sleeve of his robes. “C’mon, Draco.” Draco had lost sight of Potter in the surging crowd, all of the students pushing to get to their dorms before there was a line. 

“I’m coming.” Draco cast one last glance over his shoulder, but Potter was nowhere to be found. 

⛧⛧⛧

Once Draco entered his dorm, he collapsed into his bed. It must’ve only been nine or ten at night, but he was already struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“G’night.” He heard Zabini say, his voice ever-so muffled by his pillow. 

Silence. 

It wasn’t that different from home nowadays, without his father inviting Voldemort’s cronies over night after night. 

He supposed he couldn’t call them that now, considering he was part of Voldemort’s followers. A shiver ran down his arm, the one with the Dark Mark. 

Fourth year had been by far the worst. Draco would sit in his room, knees pressing up against his chest, and watch the silver moon rise higher into the sky as his father’s voice filtered in through the door, speaking loudly downstairs. He hadn’t gotten much sleep that summer. 

Go to sleep. He told himself, shutting his eyes tightly.

It took too long to fall asleep, and when he did, he dreamed of Potter’s bloody nose and Dumbledore’s deadened hand.


	3. the astronomy tower

It was night again. Draco gazed out the window of his dormitory, trying to peer through the muddy green glow that lit up the bottom of the lake and catch sight of the stars. 

The entire day, Draco hadn't been able to focus on anything. During transfiguration class, instead of turning a twig into a leaf, he had turned it into a live, writhing snake. God knows how that happened. Even McGonagall had looked a bit stunned. Pansy had nodded to him, smirking as if they both knew a secret. Draco had simply looked cooly back. She could interpret that however she wanted. 

Now that it was nighttime, Draco still hadn't come to a decision. He couldn't believe that he was even considering meeting Harry, on Harry's terms, near Harry's dorm. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

Then again, the nagging voice in the back of his head urged him to go. Maybe he felt like he owed Harry something - breaking his nose went far beyond the childish taunts that were all Draco had inflicted on Harry before. 

With a sigh, Draco decided that he wouldn't get any sleep if he didn't go. Plus, he told himself, maybe you can get information about Dumbledore while you're at it.

Glancing at the blinking clock on his bedside table, he saw it was nearing midnight. All of his roommates were asleep by now, so Draco slipped out of his bed and grabbed his slippers before tiptoeing to the door and opening it as silently as he could. 

He walked slowly, carefully down the stairs, wincing as the door to the halls creaked while closing. 

The entire way to the astronomy tower, his heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. The one good thing about being terrified he would be caught out of bed was that it took his mind off the fact that the reason he was out of bed was because he was meeting Potter.

He didn’t see a single person while he was walking. Whether that was good or bad was yet to be seen. 

Draco cursed himself as he walked up the stairs to the tower. He hesitated for only a second before pushing open the great oak door that led outside. 

He was stunned temporarily, as he had never taken astronomy, he had yet to see the night sky from the top of Hogwarts. 

He had been missing out. 

The sky was dotted with bright stars, and as he gazed up at them, he recalled a few constellations from his childhood: when his father was meeting with the extra - important “associates,'' Draco's mother would hurry him outside and have him lay down, looking at the night sky. She would point out the way the stars connected to make figures, and Draco would imagine himself floating among them, lost in the sky. 

Now he felt the same way. Lost, with no tether to find his way home. Floating among the stars, so far away from all his friends, because how could they ever even imagine how he was feeling? They looked up to Voldemort, seeing him as a sort of savior who would bring glory to the Slytherin house again. They didn’t know what it was like to be trained to be a murderer. To be weighed down by the knowledge that one day soon his wand would blast a green light that would hit Dumbledore square in the chest and knock him down to the ground, and he would never get up again.

And Draco would have to look into his pale blue eyes as the life drained from them, slowly, until they were glassy and reflected the millions of stars above. 

He was too lost in thought to realize that Harry had been standing in front of him for a good couple of seconds. He scrambled backwards, letting out a squeak as his foot met thin air and he was falling, hard, into the trapdoor that he had so stupidly left open. 

He had braced himself for the painful half-split he was about to perform, but what he hadn’t braced for was Harry grabbing a fistful of his robes and yanking him up, until Draco’s chin almost brushed Harry’s nose. Then he released him, and Draco stumbled to the side, bracing himself against the stone wall that ringed the tower. 

Great. He was making a fool of himself already. Draco had always strived to keep the clean, polished, image that Lucius upheld about the Malfoy family. But in the past few days, he was teetering dangerously on the edge of shattering it. 

“What do you want, Potter?” Draco spat.

Harry sneered back. “I want answers, Malfoy. What you were saying on the train - you can’t seriously be thinking about becoming a death eater, can you? After your father- I mean, that’s idiotic, Malfoy. Even for you.”

Draco resisted the urge to touch his arm, the arm where a snake, coiled in a skull, waiting to strike. I already have. He said to himself. Out loud, however, he simply said, “You really think I’m going to answer that question?”

Harry threw up his hands. “Fine, then! What happened on the train?”

Draco crossed his arms. “I don’t know. I just - I saw-”

“Spit it out, Malfoy.” Harry glared at him.

“Blood.” Draco near - whispered. 

Harry looked at him cautiously. “You punched me in the nose. Of course I bled.” But his voice had lost its edge. he was tearing Draco’s walls down one by one, and he could tell that he was seeing a side to Draco that not many people had seen. 

Draco hated it. But he couldn’t put on a brave face now. It was too late.

“No.” He said, his voice cracking. He knew, in the back of his mind, that he would regret this tomorrow. But he couldn’t stop. It was a combination of his exhaustion and his guilt and his fear. “It was everywhere. Gallons and gallons of blood, clouding my vision until I couldn’t see.” He paused. “It was on my hands, too.”

He dared to look up on the last word. Harry was staring at him, slack - jawed. Then he sighed. “Look, I wasn’t going to do this.” Before Draco could ask what, Harry reached into his pocket and drew out a single gold galleon, looking freshly minted. It had a small hole punched through its top, just enough to string a chain around it. “But here.” Harry shoved the coin - necklace into Draco’s palm. 

When their skin pressed together, Draco felt a shock like lightning jolt through him. It was from surprise, he was sure, after all, Harry and him rarely touched. Being mortal enemies since they were eleven years old.

“What is this?” Draco held the coin up, his hand gripping the chain, and examined it.

“What we used last year in Dumbledore’s army to communicate. It’ll warm up when I touch the matching one.” Harry drew an identical galleon out of his pocket. He moved the dial of numbers until it read 6 - 2 - 4 - 4 - 2. Draco hesitantly rubbed the metal of his own coin beneath his finger. The once chilly metal now warmed his fingers, like it had been baking in the hot sun for hours. 

“If you need me, just adjust the dial. It has a tracking charm too - but the charm can only be activated if you turn the dial, so no need to worry about me spying on you wherever you go.” After a pause, he added, “Or you spying on me. In case you were thinking about that.”

Harry lifted the chain over his head and settled it around his neck, tucking it under his robes, so Draco did the same. The metal felt warm against his chest. Why did it feel good?

“Matching necklaces, Potter?” Draco raised his eyebrows. “This is moving quite fast.”

Harry frowned. “Shut up, Malfoy. Bloody hell, I thought you’d be civil for once, when I’m actually trying to help you.”

“I think you’re forgetting who tried to be civil first.”

Harry scrunched up his brow. “When have you ever tried to be civil?”

“Remember?” Draco stepped a bit closer to tap Harry’s head. It was an impulse, one that Harry nearly pulled away from. “Eleven years old? I was fully prepared to become best friends. Handshake and everything.”

“Yeah, except you insulted my only friend I had made so far. So charismatic.” Harry rolled his eyes. “And you’ve been at my throat ever since.”

Draco shrugged. “Fair enough.” And maybe it was because his life was a fucking disaster, and he was falling apart day by day, but on the top of the astronomy tower that night, Draco Malfoy didn’t care about fucking up another part of his life, becuase maybe Harry Potter helping him wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

He was still an insufferable prick, but Draco held out his hand and Harry shook it. When Draco looked into his eyes, they were green like glittering coral oceans at midnight reflecting the stars, and Draco shivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back!! i know this is a short chapter but i rly wanna start updating semi regularly. also i have a twitter! (https://twitter.com/arid_prince)  
> lmk what you think about this chapter ;)


	4. imperio

The warm summer days turned chilly and the leaves began to change to orange and yellow and red. They fell onto the ground, small, dead things littering the grounds of Hogwarts. 

Draco bought a little, leather-bound notebook where he scrawled places and times he thought Dumbledore might be vulnerable, ways to take advantages of those places and times. He charmed it so the words it held would look meaningless to anyone but him, and hid it under a pillow, inside a hollowed-out book titled History of Transfiguration. He didn’t want to take any chances. 

He went to classes, took notes, and tried not to think about Harry or Dumbledore or the terrible, terrible deed he was meant to do. 

He was doing quite a good job of pushing everything down until Blaise announced there was a Slug Club meeting.

“What?” Draco said. He was sprawled out on his bed, reading a textbook. He turned his head towards Blaise, who lounged on his own bed, right across from Draco’s. 

Blaise repeated what he had said, somewhat impatiently. “I’m going to the Slug Club meeting tonight.”

“Why?” Draco asked.

Blaise shrugged. “I don’t know. He might be able to get me connections and stuff. Not everyone has Lucius Malfoy as a father, Draco.”

Draco huffed. “But Slughorn’s a dumb prick. I don’t know how you stand him.”

“Just because he doesn’t like you as much as Snape doesn’t mean he’s insufferable.” Blaise smirked. 

Draco went back to reading his textbook. 

But that night, when Blaise left the common room, he sat on his bed, cross-legged, and thought. 

He thought about who was going to get caught in the crossfire of the war. If Blaise would even be alive at the end of the year. If he could really kill a person. 

When his thoughts became too much, he hopped off the bed and exited his dormitory, slamming his door with flair. The halls were almost empty during the night, and the few people Draco wandered into quickly looked away as he flashed them a scowl.

When he found himself absentmindedly walking towards the staircase to the Gryffindor common room, he turned around sharply, walking back towards the dungeons. Going anywhere near their common room would practically be suicide. 

When he finally got back to the Slytherin common room, his eyes caught on the message board hanging next to the entrance to the dorms.   
Hogsmeade trip next week! The board read cheerily, in loopy script letters. In the corner, someone had doodled cartoon people toasting butterbeers and smiling.

Draco frowned.

Then something in his head clicked—before he had left for school at the end of the year, his mother had pressed an opal necklace, wrapped in cloth, into his hand, telling him that if he even grazed it with his fingers, he would die. 

Draco had pushed the necklace far down into his suitcase. Now, he slid the suitcase out from under his bed and rummaged through it, drawing out the necklace. He turned it over in his hands, his mind plotting, planning. 

If he got someone from Hogsmeade to hand the necklace to a student, telling the student it was a gift for Dumbledore, could the necklace travel safely to his office? Could his mission be over before October?

Somehow Draco doubted it would be that simple. But he let himself believe it regardless, because if he didn’t have hope, what did he have?

⛧⛧⛧

A week later, Draco fiddled with the cloth-wrapped necklace in his fingers. He was waiting in the long line to exit the castle. It was so backed up because Filch insisted on checking every single person individually with his stupid Secercy Sensor. It was like he was trying to make Draco as anxious as he could.

As the line filtered forwards, Draco’s stomach began to tie itself in a knot. Of course his father wouldn’t have given him any Dark item that was pathetic enough to set off the sensor, but Draco couldn’t help but feel the anticipation chipping away at his confidence. If he was caught, it would all be over. There was no way to explain his possession of an item that killed anyone it touched. Even his father might not be able to bribe his way out of that. 

He reached the end of the line much too soon. Filch scowled at him, jabbed him with the sensor. There was a moment after, where Draco held his breath, his palm sweaty as he clutched the necklace in his pocket, and waited for the sensor to betray him and light up.

It was silent. 

Draco didn’t realize he had paused until Filch glared at him, nudging him forwards. “We don’t have all day,” He said angrily.

Draco hurried out the door, down to Hogsmeade. He hadn’t expected to be this nervous—he could feel his heart pounding beneath his cloak. His hand still clutched the necklace.

He ducked into the Three Broomsticks to collect himself, then cursed when he saw Harry and his friends. He edged towards the door, watching Harry, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

No luck. Their eyes locked. Draco watched as Harry’s eyes widened slightly and he said something to Ron and Hermione, who nodded as Harry stepped away and began to walk towards Draco.

He cursed again, under his breath. Harry pushed through the crowd, and, in no time, was right in front of him. “What are you doing here?” Harry asked.

“What, I’m not allowed to have fun, now, Potter?” Draco sneered. 

Harry sighed. “You know that’s not what I meant. You’re not going to… do anything, will you?”

Draco was definitely going to do something. His plan was falling into place in the back of his head. “Well, I’m going to get a butterbeer, if the Chosen One will allow me.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re such a prick.”

Draco walked towards the counter, where Madame Rosmerta was jotting down some customers orders on a notepad. When they had finished and left to find a table, Draco tapped her shoulder, aware of Harry staring at him from behind. 

When she turned around, he saw a faint hint of shock pass over her face before she put on a smile. “What can I do for you?” She asked pleasantly. 

Draco smiled at her, layering on the charm. “Could I possibly talk to you outside for a few moments? I’m writing an essay on small magical businesses for History of Magic and I’d just like you to ask you a few questions.”

Rosmerta paused, then shrugged. “I’m going on break in a couple minutes, so I’ll just clock out a couple of minutes early. Sure.”

“Thank you.” Draco grinned, trying to muster up what looked like genuine enthusiasm. It was hard, considering what he was about to do.

They walked past Harry on their way out. He looked curious. Draco shot him the sort of look he hoped implied that he would curse him if he even thought about following them. 

Rosmerta led him to a quiet spot behind the Three Broomsticks, forest behind them and the shop in front. 

“So.” Rosmerta smiled. “Ask away.”

“Okay.” Draco paused. His heart pounded furiously, and he scratched his chin nervously. He had read the Imperius curse only worked if it had genuine intent behind it. He reminded himself that he needed this, that he wanted this. He wanted his father out of jail. He wanted to see his mother’s smile again. 

He wanted to live.

He drew his wand out of his robes, Rosmerta’s eyes widened with just a twinge of fear, and he pointed it at her chest. 

“Imperio.” He whispered.

As soon as Draco muttered the curse, the fear on Rosmerta’s face was washed away with something that looked like relief. Her eyes became unfocused and dreamy, and her entire body relaxed.

Draco shivered. Not only because of the chill, but because he was past the point of going back now. 

Draco’s hand, still pointing the wand at her chest, was shaking. “You’re going to go into the restroom of the Three Broomsticks. When a Hogwarts student walks in, you’re going to hand them this necklace-” At this, Draco took the necklace out of his pocket carefully and put it in Rosmerta’s hand, “And tell them to bring it to Dumbledore, with strict instructions not to let anyone touch it. No one except Dumbledore. Do you understand?” He waited until Rosmerta nodded, then continued, “Then, you will act like everything is normal, and await further instructions. You will tell no one about this.” 

Rosmerta nodded slowly.

“Act normal, for christ’s sake!” Draco snapped. Rosmerta started. While before, her eyes had looked clouded, like she was gazing at something far away, she now looked focused—normal. 

“Is that it?” She asked.

“Yes.” Draco nodded. “You can go now.”

They made their way back to the front of the Three Broomstick. Draco felt so tired—he could already tell that keeping up such a strong spell would sap his energy, which is exactly what he didn’t need. But Rosmerta was worth it. Having someone outside of Hogwarts would help him. 

They entered the Three Broomsticks, and Draco was hit by the smell of warm butterbeer, the friendly chatter of the Hogwarts students. Draco lost track of Rosmerta almost instantly, which was probably good, because Harry sidled up to him almost immediately. Had he been waiting by the door for him?

“What were you doing?” Harry hissed. 

“My lord, Potter.” Draco shook his head, trying his hardest to pretend like he wasn’t two seconds away from strangling him. “You really care that much?” He wished Harry wouldn’t get in the way so much. If Harry discovered what he was doing, everything was over. “If you absolutely need to know, I was asking her some questions for an essay.” 

Harry squinted at him, as if trying to find the lie. “Fine, Malfoy.” He finally said.

“Now, I’m going to get some butterbeer, because I’m starved. Any more questions?”

Harry looked at him, disappointment clear in his gaze, and walked away.

Draco let out a breath. If his plan worked, Dumbledore could be dead within hours. The thought made him sick. He didn’t feel like having a drink anymore, even if it was warm and sweet. He just wanted to go back to the dorms, lie down, and maybe have a good cry. 

Of course, Malfoy’s didn’t show weakness, but his father was in Azkaban. What could he do to him from there?

He decided to take a table to himself. He wondered where Crabbe and Goyle were. He had told them he felt ill when they left so they wouldn’t follow him around. They were always his shadows, ever present. He was getting a bit tired of the constant reminder of all of their fathers ties. His father was the only reason Draco tolerated Crabbe and Goyle in the first place. 

He didn’t want to think about his father, but he kept weaseling his way back into Draco’s thoughts. 

He stood up from the table too fast. He suddenly wanted out of this place. He didn’t want to be surrounded by people laughing and talking and he especially didn’t want to keep seeing that couple in the corner make out and giggle. 

He walked out of the Three Broomsticks. The path back to Hogwarts was quiet. There were no people within Draco’s view. He supposed that most people wanted to stay at Hogsmeade for the longest time they could. Draco just wanted to leave.   
The view of Hogwarts broke over the horizon and Draco began to relax. He was just beginning to feel the tension in his shoulders loosen slightly when a scream shattered the silence.


	5. necklaces and quidditch matches

Draco ran blindly in the direction of the scream. For a moment he worried that it had been Harry—he was always getting into trouble—but, no, it was clearly a girl’s scream.

He nearly froze when he saw the sight laid out before him. It was Katie Bell, suspended in midair, in the midst of swirling flakes of snow, her hair floating around her head. Her eyes were closed, and her whole face was calm, if flushed with cold. The pink tinging her cheeks and nose were the only sign she was alive.. But the worst part of all was the small package on the ground below her—something wrapped in cloth, with the smallest hole torn through. What was glinting inside looked all-too-much like an opal necklace.

Draco barely had time to scan his surroundings—Katie’s friend, he couldn’t remember her name now, and Harry and his friends were all clustered around her (of course they were there, they were always there)—before Katie began to scream. 

The empty expression on her face contrasted sharply with the anguish clear in her voice. Draco flinched. The opal necklace laying under her feet still had not processed for him. All he wanted was to make the screaming stop.

He leapt forwards, and his four classmates jumped, realizing he was there. Harry looked at him, clearly unsure of what to do. Draco dashed forwards and pulled on his sleeve. 

“Come on!” He hissed, Katie still screaming above them. “We need to get help.” 

Harry seemed to snap out of a trance as he nodded. They began to run down the path, breath coming out like smoke. Without noticing, they matched pace, neither faster than the other. Draco was squinting, attempting to see past the sleet that was falling heavier by the minute, when he collided with a huge figure. From the muffled sound that came from just beside him, Harry had too.

They both stumbled back. Draco looked up at a bearded face—Hagrid, the groundskeeper.

Harry gasped, “Hagrid— it’s Katie—she’s been cursed, or something—we need help—”

Hagrid’s expression turned stony.

“Follow us,” Draco managed, his voice raspy and dry.

The three of them raced back down the path towards Katie. As soon as they reached her, Hagrid’s eyes widened. He pushed everyone back, scooping her up in his arms, and ran back towards the castle. Katie’s screams were replaced by the sound of the howling wind.

Katie’s friend was hiccup-crying, desperately trying to wipe off her tears with her robe’s sleeve. She had slumped to the ground, which couldn’t have been comfortable. Draco imagined she must be soaked through with all the snow she was sitting on. Hermione went over to her, squeezing her shoulder. Draco couldn't quite make out what she was saying over the wind.

Ron was white with shock, and glanced over at Draco warily, as if bracing himself. 

If he was looking for an insult, it would never come. Draco glanced towards the ground at the necklace. The cloth that was covering it was barely visible under the snow, but it had obviously caught Harry’s eye. He bent down, reaching out a hand for the necklace. 

Before Draco could stop him, Katie’s friend’s gaze snapped up. “No!” She shouted, and Harry jumped back as though shocked. 

“What is it?”

Katie’s friend shook her head. “I—I don’t know.”

Harry squinted down, and Draco’s heart nearly stopped as he said, “I’ve seen this before. On display at Borgin and Burkes—the label said it was cursed. How did Katie get this?”

“It was actually what we were arguing about.” Katie friend said almost sheepishly. “She came back from the bathroom, said she needed to give it to someone at Hogwarts. She looked funny…” Her eyes widened, and she gasped, “Oh, oh! She was Impirused, I think.” She began to cry softly again.

“It’s okay,” Hermione nodded her head encouragingly. “Did she say anything else?”

“No.” Katie’s friend whimpered. “I thought she was being suspicious so I tried to grab it from her—the packaging must’ve slipped.” She kept crying.

Draco felt a shiver of horror run through his body. He hadn’t been careful enough. If the packaging had slipped just a little more, Katie could have been dead. Because of him. Because of his carelessness. He cursed everything. 

“Here,” Hermione helped Katie up. 

They began to walk back towards Hogwarts, bracing themselves against the howling wind.

Katie’s friend looked so broken. How much longer would it take, how many people would he shatter, before he became a murderer?

...

To be honest, being a seeker on the Slytherin team had not been the foremost thing on Draco’s mind for the past couple of weeks. The main thoughts occupying him had been about the murder he had almost committed, but Urquhart, the team captain, didn’t know that. So Draco could almost forgive him for being so angry. 

“You. Little. Fuckhead.” Urquhart said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what's happening with you, but your flying is shit. If you don’t shape up before tomorrow, you’re off the team. Now get out of my sight before I decide I want to kick your ass.”

Draco wanted to punch him in the face. Instead, he walked as fast as he could to the dorms. When he reached his bed, he collapsed into it, falling asleep almost instantly.

He needed to beat Harry tomorrow.

...

Draco woke up to Blaise in his face. “Get up!” Blaise shook his shoulder. Draco had to rub his eyes for a few seconds before his face came into focus, right above him. 

“Get—off.” Draco shoved Blaise’s arm off. He buried the blush that threatened to rise to his cheeks—there was no way this would be a repeat of fourth year, when he suddenly became sensitive to boys touching him, god knows why. 

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Get ready, quickly. You’re playing in the first Slytherin-Gryffindor match of the year, and the entire house is counting on you. No pressure or anything.”

Draco groaned before rolling out of bed and throwing on his robes. Blaise really was annoying. He knew it was the first match of the year, the one that would set the tone for the following matches. He knew a lot hinged on this match, and that, as the seeker, the entire team was relying on him. 

God, the pressure felt suffocating. 

They reached the dining room shortly. The entire Great Hall was buzzing with excitement. Both Slytherin and Gryffindor were eager to win the match, and the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs knew they were in for quite the… competitive match. A few cheers came from the Slytherin table as Draco entered. He held his head high as he strode to the table, ignoring the glares from the Gryffindors. 

He slid in to a bench, Blaise right next to him. He ate quickly, trying to avoid the urge to slam his head into the table and spend the match in the infirmary instead. Only two things prevented him from doing that. One, the fact that it would hurt. A lot. Two, the fact that if he was out of the match, his team would have a guaranteed loss, and he would most likely get murdered by Urquhart, for whom quidditch matches were a life-or-death event. 

He failed miserably at trying not to look at Harry, who was trying to comfort an exceeding pale Ron. 

He shouldn’t have been worried. He had caught glimpses of their practices. Ron fumbled every ball. Draco hadn’t seen the Gryffindor keeper save a single goal. But Harry… Harry might make up for Ron’s ineptitude. 

As the team began to change into the game’s robes, Draco began to feel nerves boiling in his stomach. Even though Ron was a completely incompetent Keeper, Harry was the best seeker of his generation (even Draco couldn’t deny that). And if Harry caught the Snitch quickly enough, Gryffindor could win the game. And Gryffindor couldn’t win. 

Draco told himself this every time. And Gryffindor always won. Somehow they snatched the last-minute, game-saving catch. But this time—this time would be different.

He took a deep breath as he grabbed his shiny Nimbus 2001 and followed Urquhart and his teammates out onto the pitch.

Immediately, all he could hear were the roaring cheers of the Slytherins, along with a few very loud boos from the Gryffindors. He glanced across the pitch to see Harry and Ron standing close together, both in red-gold uniforms and clutching their broomsticks. Harry looked like he was holding back a grin, the corners of his mouth twitching, and Ron looked… confident?

It was the exact opposite of what he had expected. From what he had heard, Ron was a terrible Keeper, fumbling goals and generally a bundle of nerves. This Ron didn’t look nervous. This Ron looked like he knew he would win. 

This Ron was trouble. 

Draco watched as Urquhart and Harry shook hands and they mounted their brooms. With the blow of Madame Hooch’s whistle, they were off. 

He felt sick. 

Draco scanned the pitch for the snitch, looking up as Urquhart sped past him with the quaffle, making the first goal of the game. 

Well, the first attempt on the goal. But with Ron’ quidditch skills (or lack thereof), what was the difference, he thought to himself.

He was wrong. As he continued to scan for the snitch, he heard Zacharias Smith’s voice echoing through the stands, “And Weasley saves it. He’s bound to get lucky sometimes, I suppose.”

Draco’s head snapped towards the goals, where Ron clutched the quaffle in both hands, panting and beaming. He almost fell off his broom. 

Maybe this game would be harder than he thought.

...

What. The. Fuck.

Draco was in shock. The score was 60 to 0. Weasley, the bumbling idiot, had saved more goals than the Slytherin Keeper. He whipped his head around as he heard Weasley Is Our King from the stands. His song—the song he had worked tirelessly on—was being sung by the Gryffindors. To congratulate Weasley, no less. And Weasley was conducting them, waving his fingers through the air an easy grin on his face.

Draco felt red-hot anger like a hot poker being pressed into his chest. He couldn’t have this one thing? He couldn’t even win a fucking quidditch game?

He was no longer even looking for the snitch. He had his sights trained on Harry now. Harry, who seemed to be part of all his problems. He popped up like a mole in that damned muggle game everywhere Draco went.

He leaned forwards on his broom, shifting his weight forward until he was rockting towards Harry at full speed. The wind whipped his hair into his eyes, which were quickly beginning to water up, and he had to squint to see in front of him. 

He rammed into Harry, mid-air, their shoulders colliding together. He heard a sharp intake of breath for right next to him, so he assumed he hurt Harry as much as he had hurt himself. He flew away, his shoulder aching. He faintly realized that a bruise would be forming.

There was a roar from the stands, equal parts boos (Gryffindors) and cheers (Slytherins), but Madame Hooch had been looking the other way, and so couldn’t call a foul. 

As his gaze focused back to the pitch, gold glinted just out of his gaze. He did a double take, and when he looked back, there was the snitch, hovering just above the ground below him. 

It took a moment for him to react, but he leaned forwards so much he was almost lying on his broom. He was just feet away from the snitch when he heard Harry behind him.

As if from far away, just as Draco’s hand grazed the golden snitch, he heard Harry’s voice. Faint, as the wind muffled it, so faint he couldn’t quite catch the words leaving Harry’s lips.

Draco looked back. Why did he look back? He knew he shouldn’t have. As he caught Harry’s eyes he saw an apology in them. Of course it was a distraction—why would it be anything else?

He gasped, slightly, and felt the snitch fumble through his hands. He saw, as if from outside of his body, Harry’s broom dart forwards and he clasped an eager fist over the humming snitch. 

He heard a whistle. The stands were exploding, but they were all muffled. His ears buzzed with the low hum of anger and he found his breath becoming heavy and quick, as if he was about to cry.   
Which of course, of course, he wasn’t. He couldn’t. 

The entire world seemed to fade in and out as he left the field, and he walked across the grounds, as he opened the door to his common room, as he collapsed on his bed. 

His sleep would be erratic and uncomfortable, because every time he closed his eyes, he heard Harry, saw his eyes. He didn’t know what was happening yet, but he could feel that it was something huge.


End file.
